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4.08.2012

it was a physical pain, as real as the splintered wood of the chair poking the back of her leg.

the sound of it snagged her breath. made breathing shallow.

you don't get to say it, she wanted to say. it's not your name to say.

but nor was it hers.

and that was what hurt.

that she had no more right--no more power--than that half-stranger across the room who had released it into the air--that half-stranger who mistook the easy smile for the whole of the truth.

that he was not hers to love or know or think about. that she might never say his name and have him hook her round the hips in pure ecstasy just at having heard it uttered by her perfect lips, in her own imperfect way.

that she might never see him again, know him again, love him again. that all that would be left would be his name hanging in the air, uttered by someone else.

ugh, this really captured what I've felt before/been feeling lately. I had this guy, that one guy who always just out of reach, where I felt a sort of reverence when I said his name- almost like it was my religion. It took a really long time to let go of that and then for it not to feel this way, this pain when his name was spoken. You captured it perfectly.

It's your hunky Aussie friend here. When are you going to start employing the capital letter? Love to talk soon. To all meg's fans, I went to Juilliard with her and sweated next to her on many a rehearsal floor so I can give her a good ribbing... She's the real deal.